by Jacob Ross
‘Miss Stanislaus, if it take me the rest of my days I will find them and bring them back.’
Miss Stanislaus took my elbow and steered me away.
At her gap, I gave her the money for the lab. ‘When Ramlogan call and confirm that he’s got the samples, you wire this to him.’
Miss Stanislaus got out of the car, closed the door and pushed her head through the window. ‘Missa Digger, you still got girlfren troubles, not so?’
I shrugged and forced a smile.
‘That girlchile got no sense. Don’t forget the pone I bake for yuh.’ Miss Stanislaus smacked her lips and walked away.
I ate the pone, licked my fingers, tapped my horn. Drove off.
38
A soggy Friday morning. A fine drizzle was misting the valley when I got to Bello’s garden. I cleared out the clutter in the shed: the broken handle of a spade, a stack of dry wood along with the detritus of discarded root vegetables and dead leaves.
I took a break to call Caran.
‘Digger what’s happening? I getting news and it don’t sound good.’
‘What news?’ I said.
‘Word reach me that Dregs sell you out. That true?’
‘Is not so straightforward,’ I said. I filled him in as briefly as I could. Caran remained silent for a long time. ‘Lissen, fella, watch your back. If I can’t help you as officer, I help you as friend. Y’hear me?’
‘I hear.’
Caran mumbled something and switched off.
I’d taken a spare car battery and adapter for my phone.
In seven days the results should be in my hands. That left me the weekend to digest it, make notes and prepare my case for the Monday meeting.
If the DNA results proved that Miss Stanislaus was right about the children being Bello’s, that would not provide the winning argument. A man fathering a brood in every parish – with a different woman for each child – was no scandal on Camaho. In fact, it was a source of envy in other men. A father ignoring the existence of his offspring was as much a part of life as hot sun was. My own father was proof of that. But a man killing the mother of his child was a different matter altogether.
I started my search from the centre of the garden, prodding the soil with a slim, heavy iron rod. I worked in an outward spiral, stopping after dark and crossing out each day on a notepad.
The weather in the Mardi Gras was unreadable. An early morning sky would threaten rain, but the day turned out to be scorching. Sudden showers replaced sunshine without notice. Nights were always shivering.
When it rained, I threw a plastic sheet over my head and carried on. On blistering days I took off my shirt and worked bareback in my shorts. Evenings, I boiled a pot of plain rice, dumped a tin of sardines or corned beef in it and fed myself. I washed in the skin-chilling mountain stream that broke through the rocks further up the hillside.
Nights, I made notes, sifting through the streams of words from Miss Stanislaus, The Mother and the congregation.
I always came back to Adora. It was as if the woman was in some on-going conversation with herself while, at the same time, throwing words at Mother Bello.
I thought I understood that. A deacon’s wife was the shield between her husband and the women of his flock. She slept with him and ate with him, was the ruler of the four corners of his bed. In every Fire Baptist church on Camaho, The Mother was the Watchman who watched her husband – the one whose job it was to temper his temptations and police his appetites.
I’d given Miss Stanislaus my new number. She kept in touch through text messages. She still hadn’t got the hang of predictive typing, but occasionally I made out the odd word and because I knew it would fluster her, I entertained myself by sending back emoticons with pouting lips and throbbing hearts.
Pet left me several voice messages, asking where I was, reminding me at the end of every one of the date of the hearing. Nine o’clock, she said, MJ’s office, Canteen.
By the fifth day, my limbs were numb, my hands sore from probing the earth. I checked my watch and saw that it was Tuesday of the second week.
I sat with the steel rod across my lap surveying the hills, the cresting vegetation, and the gully at the bottom of the land.
I remembered Kathy Jensen, a criminology tutor I adored, who talked rather than taught. She was obsessed with ideas – her own. Criminal thought is primitive thought, she said. Examine that part of yourself and you’ll understand the way the mind of a criminal works.
Where in this place would Bello hide a pair of murdered bodies?
I took my notepad, drew a circle on a blank page, wrote HIDE in its centre. I began clustering words around it, creating a semantic field. The trick was not thinking while I did it. I scribbled bury, under, dark, cover, shade, avoid… building a widening constellation of word-associations and images.
I left the notebook lying on the earth, washed myself, boiled some rice and sat down to eat. An hour later I returned to the notebook, tore out the page and stared at the confusion I’d created. I circled the words that stood out for me, then tossed the paper in the fire.
By the next day, I had gone beyond the boundaries of Bello’s land and would soon be crossing the gully where the forest began climbing towards the triple peaks of the Mardi Gras.
That night I sat up in the dark, not sure of what it was that pulled me out of sleep. Out there it was quiet. I felt for my belt and slipped out. A clear crisp night. The faint suggestion of a new moon directly overhead. A glimmer drew my eyes towards an unsteady flame progressing from the lower depths of the valley. Voices – sharp on the wind, then fading. The occasional yapping of a dog. Boys, no doubt, from the village below, hunting bush-meat.
I sat in the doorway following the climbing light until the kerosene torch became a yellow bloom above the gully directly ahead of me, never quite disappearing. I woke again close to morning, to the shuffling of dried leaves. I left the shed, pressed my back against the wall, stood there for a long time listening. Nothing but the chittering of night insects and the sloping grey silence down below.
I was up and working when Miss Stanislaus called, wanting to know if I was alright. ‘What you eatin in dat bush up deh? You got fruit? A pusson body need fruit. You want me bring some sapodilla and star-apple? I got ripe fig too. What about a cake? Or p’raps some potato pone? Today is Thursday, Missa Digger; you call dem furrin-sick people in Trinidad to make sure?’
I said no to all her questions and thanked her for reminding me about the lab results.
I phoned Ramlogan. ‘Digson here, Ramlogan. Results ready?’
‘Hello, Mister Digson. How are you?’ Ramlogan sounded cheery.
‘It ready, Ramlogan? Gimme a straight answer.’
‘Hold on, Mister Digson.’
He came back. ‘We’ve done de screening, de extraction…’
‘Yes, and the quantitation and the PCR and all them tings which should’ve happened in the first few days like you promised. You can’t bamboozle me with your science. Is eight days now and I want to know if you finish the report and whether I getting it on time.’
‘Everything done, Mister Digson. Is only the report not finish yet. Tomorrow, Friday, I will tie up everything for you; but like you know courier not available weekends. So I post it Monday and you get it Tuesday.’
‘Tuesday too late.’
‘Is a lotta work. We can’t do better than Tuesday.’
‘Tuesday no good.’
‘I guarantee Tuesday, Sir. Is de best I could do.’
‘No good.’
He must have heard my distress. ‘Look, Mister Digson, I sorry. Is not the kinda ting you could take home and work on. I promise I come back to de office tonight and work on it. I promise.’
‘And when I going get it?
‘Monday morning, I’ll go personally to Piarco Airport, put it on Islander Airlines with one of them air hostess girls I know. You pick it up Monday morning.’
‘No good.’ I said. ‘Monday morning i
s the meeting.’
‘You trust Missa Ramlan wuds?’ Miss Stanislaus wanted to know.
‘I have to.’ I said.
‘And you say he say he goin be at the office tonight?’
‘That’s what he say.’
‘Office same address you did ask me to send the package to, not so?’
‘What you thinkin, Miss Stanislaus?’
‘I not thinkin, Missa Digger, is a question I asking you.’
‘S’far as I know, yes.’
‘Missa Digger, you alright?’
‘Miss Stanislaus, why you keep on askin me that question, especially now?’
‘I call you later, Missa Digger.’ Miss Stanislaus hung up.
*
Ramlogan’s response forced me to see the impossibility of what I’d set out to do. I looked about me. For all my efforts the garden looked untouched, the blue-black hills just as detached and impenetrable as the climbing forest.
I began tidying up my mess and sorting out the luggage I had brought with me.
Finished, I cast an eye on the aluminium case I’d leaned against the doorway – my ‘murder bag’ into which I’d slotted foam compartments and packed with phials, measuring tape, preservatives, viscera boxes, anticoagulant, needles, syringes, toothpicks, self-sealing sachets, brushes, lifting tapes and small medical instruments. There were plastic spoons and forks in there, empty 35mm film canisters, sea salt, small bottles of over-proof rum, vinegar, surgical spirit – in fact, whatever substitute I could find for the necessary things I could not obtain or afford.
I walked the land once more, crisscrossing it first, then retracing my steps till I came once more to the old forest – cool, filled with the ticking of dried leaves and insects, but still heavy with an ancient silence that could not be replaced by any sound on earth. Dusk was purpling the vegetation when I got back to the shed.
I boiled some rice, tried to eat, but did not have the appetite.
My phone rang, I picked up.
‘Missa Digger?’ I could barely hear Miss Stanislaus for the roar and clatter that invaded my ear.
‘What’s happening in that church? I could hardly hear you.’
‘Missa Digger, I call you to tell you dat Missa Ramlam back at the office seven o’clock.’
‘Ramlogan, not Ramlam. He tell you that?’
‘Uh-huh, so I waitin around a bit.’
‘Waitin aroun… Miss Stanislaus!’
‘I come to collect dem tings. Missa Digger you there?’
‘I here. Where you say you…’
‘I by de office waitin for Missa Ramlan.’
I felt a light-headed, breathlessness. ‘Miss Stanislaus! Miss Stanislaus – you – you the greatest woman in the world, y’unnerstan? You – you the top of the topmost!’
She chuckled brightly in my ear. ‘Watch your mouth, Missa Digger. Yunno, Trinidad not bad. Everybody a little crazy here, but them awright. I see you soon, Missa Digger.’
‘Where you stayin?’
‘Missa Ramlam tell me he up whole night to write the report. I goin keep im company. Missa Digger, you make any progress?’
‘Nuh,’ I said. ‘Was a waste of my days. I out of here tomorrow.’
‘This goin have to do, Missa Digger.’
‘Yes, but only if…’
‘Is so, Missa Digger. I believe is so. Ba-bye.’
I got up early, dragged my things out of the shed and prepared myself for the downhill journey to where I’d parked my car.
On the top of the incline above the garden I stopped, held there by a nagging reluctance to leave – that and the certainty I’d felt about this place as Bello’s site of concealment.
Far below on my right, I caught a glimpse of the hill village from which the boys had climbed the night before. I visualised the journey of the masantorch on the other side, above the gully, the abrupt uphill turn a little way past the silk-cotton tree, avoiding no doubt what looked like a vine-covered rock-protrusion that would have stood between them and the upper region of the ravine. Avoiding the difficulty of the climb from there.
I dropped the bags and began walking back down the hill, the case on my shoulder.
I crossed the gully, scrambled left.
The stones stopped me, a dark receding bed of boulders over which the great protruding rock-face hung. I could still see the slipping footprints of the youths, veering uphill.
I dropped my case, took out my torch and began making my way over the stones, some almost as tall as me. The place was so deeply shaded, I had to pause to adjust my eyes to the gloom.
A clearing was at the foot of the rock-rise and what looked like an abandoned coal-pit. I made my way towards it and switched on my torch. With the blade of light I traced the outlines of the subsided earth, the darker shade of soil around the edges of the depression. With a small shovel, I probed the soil for compaction, felt the yield of the earth under its blade and stepped away.
I took photos of the scene, then placed soil samples in a solution of baking soda which confirmed for me that it was alkaline.
The subsoil was dry despite the rains – sheltered as it was by the overhanging rock. Already, from the soil sample, I had a reasonable idea of the state of the body if anything was there.
By early afternoon I had made a trench around the space and removed most of the covering earth. Finally, for that last series of brushstrokes – that awful moment of revelation – I paused and braced myself.
Death is not a pretty thing, however much you dress it up. I couldn’t help imagining what this young woman was before, as I looked down at what lay in front of me. It took something out of me, always, to confront this – the wasteful indifference of death.
I was no pathologist. I had no training in forensic anthropology or anthropometry. My understanding of entomology was sketchy. The equipment I had was basic.
But I would do my best to identify these remains, keep what was left of this female as whole as I could. I would take her back to people who would recognise and claim her. I would do this to help fill whatever void this woman’s disappearance had left in them. It was the best that I could do.
It took me all weekend. I made notes, took photographs, made more notes, collected bone and tissue samples including arthropods that had colonised the body. At this stage they were mainly mites and rover beetles.
Sunday evening, when I phoned Caran, my head was throbbing. He answered straight away.
‘Is Digger here. I need your help.’
‘Where you deh exactly?’
I gave him directions.
‘Gimme two hours, Digger. I busy right now.’
‘Bring a stretcher when you come.’
‘Bring what?’
‘A stretcher, Caran – you not hearin me? A body-bag too.’
‘A what?’
‘Body-baaag.’
‘Hold on, Digger, I coming right now.’ Caran hung up.
An hour later, the big man appeared with two of his men behind him, their hands covering their noses. I filled them in as thoroughly as I could.
Caran threw his keys at one of his officers. ‘Okay fellas. Go to my place, tell Mary to send hot food. Bring soap too. Digger, you need a bath.’
Caran watched me while I packed up, a square of cloth masking half of his face. He’d gone so quiet, I barely remembered he was there until he cleared his throat or adjusted his position.
I showed him a sample of the insects I’d retrieved. There are people in the world, I said, who could look at these lil creatures and work their way backward to the month of this body’s passing, even the manner of her death. Did he know that?
I felt Caran’s hand on my shoulder. It took a while before it registered that he was pulling me away from the hollow at my feet.
I let my big friend hold me while I struggled not to cry.
Caran guided me up the slope to the stream, threw water over my head and scrubbed me with his bare hands.
He fixed sheets of plastic on the
earth-floor of the shed for me. I lay down and slept.
39
Sunlight was spilling over the rim of the hills when I woke. Caran had gone down to his vehicle and passed the night there. The mist had peeled off the peaks of The Mardi Gras, now inky-blue above me. They appeared so close I felt that I could land a pebble on their summits.
I went back to the site. By now, the MJ would be sitting in his office with Malan, the Commissioner and two ‘interested parties’.
I sent Pet a long message telling her I had to finish what I was doing and it would take me all day. I thanked her for everything, then I switched off my phone.
Late afternoon, I stood up. I told Caran that I had all the samples I needed; I was leaving the rest to him.
The big man helped me to my car.
I was shivering with exhaustion. I felt as if a swarm of flies had invaded my head. Hands helped me out of the vehicle when I got back to the church. I was aware of Miss Stanislaus’s voice imploring and commanding at the same time.
I woke up on a mattress on the church floor surrounded by the smell of crushed nutmeg, camphor and other odours I could not place. They’d wound a cloth around my head. My back and shoulders throbbed. I found myself looking straight into Miss Stanislaus’s eyes.
‘You back,’ she said softly. ‘You been all day on that mattress, Missa Digger.’
Miss Stanislaus sounded aggrieved. She dropped a hand at the side of my neck and thumbed the pulse there. ‘De Modder say you catch a chill. I tell her you tired. Missa Digger, I been missin you.’ She folded her dress around her legs and leaned forward. ‘Miss Pet call me from the office. She say she couldn get hold of you and she been desperate.’ Miss Stanislaus pulled a tissue from under her sleeve. ‘Missa Digger, I got de papers.’
‘Pet,’ I said. ‘What she said?’
‘Missa Ramlan is a nice man. I decide mebbe I show you Trinidad next time. Is not bad.’
‘Miss Stanislaus, what Pet say?’
‘She say, seein as you didn make de meeting, people get vex. They decide…’ Her lips worked around the words. ‘Yunno, Missa Digger, I been thinkin that you’z a bright fella. And besides, you nice. You could get work anywhere. If them don’t want you here, I believe Trinidad goin take you. I goin phone Missa Ramlan tomorrow…’